Beautiful Shadows
by sharksteeth
Summary: Every night, they scream at her until she stops looking at them.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or anything else belonging to JK Rowling. Everything but the plot belongs to her and her publishers alone. I am not earning any type of profit on this. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
A/N: I'm horrible at titles. If anyone can think of a better one for this, could you please let me know? Thanks a bunch.  
  
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Beautiful Shadows  
  
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A thin, pale back squished into the corner of the farthest wall.  
  
Nobody asks what she's doing; nobody says anything at all. It's not like it matters anyway... she can't even see them. She's not invisible, but they certainly are, to her. Her eyes keep on the other walls, tracing the shadows and shapes that move before her.  
  
She doesn't know why they dance as they do, but she likes to watch. They're beautiful shades of black and gray, that swirl and dip and float and spin. Like trails of smoke, letting the breeze or breath carry them away into the sky until they disappear forever. Except that these shadows never disappear.  
  
They used to frighten her, when she was a little girl tucked into her bed, and she could still smell her mother's perfume. They would invade the room when the candles were blown out and when the door was shut, and they would dance fiercely. Circling the room briskly, making her ears ring until she hid under the covers with a pillow on her head, humming the familiar tune of the music box on the dresser in her parents' room until she fell asleep.  
  
The shadows didn't seem to like her. When she got used to them being there, she would slide the covers down to her nose and watch them until they screamed at her. They never spoke, but she always knew that they weren't going to leave. Some nights she prayed that they would, and if she ever requested this aloud, they would shriek even louder. The shapes would become jagged and pointy, and their blaring, high-pitched tones were profanities. Even though words were never screeched, she heard them.  
  
She heard that no one would ever like or respect her. That her parents never loved her, and that she wasn't even supposed to have been born. That she was the only reason they were together, but that would soon change anyway, when they decided they really didn't care anymore. That she would never find a friend. That people would talk about her and not even notice her at the same time. That everyone she ever met would try to hurt her in some way, even if they let on otherwise at first.  
  
And she believed them. But she watched them anyway, because they were beautiful.  
  
Then she would wake in the morning, to curtains drawn and her parents chatting in the kitchen. Her mother bakes her a cake for her birthday and gives her that favourite music box with a funny pair of earrings inside, and her father makes her a doll with big silver eyes and dirty blonde hair. They go for a walk before dinner, all holding hands, and she can't help but remember what the shadows told her about her family. They seem to love her and care for her, but she still thinks they might change their minds.  
  
She goes to bed that night without the covers over her face. The shadows scream and cast her onto the floor for both doubting and believing them. She sleeps in the corner, clutching the doll, but when she wakes she finds it in shreds. The rest of the day is spent staring at the bright walls, searching them for traces of a shadow. They still frighten her at night.  
  
A month later, there is one less in the house, and when she is told, she cries. She closes her eyes tight. When she opens them, the shadows spill out of corners and keyholes and windowpanes. Her eyes widen, and she feels paralyzed; helpless. They aren't screaming, but whispering. They tell her things she wants to hear. That everything will be fine, everything will turn out in the end. That people will love her, and respect her, and those that seem like friends won't be pretending. They soothe her at night and help her sleep, and whisper the soft lullabies her mother used to sing before she closed the door. They make her feel special, and unique, and wanted. She lays down on her bed with the covers down past her shoulders, and she watches them until her eyes finally close. They're beautiful shades of black and gray, that swirl and dip and float and spin. And they continue to comfort her and tell her that all will be fine. That her life will be okay, as long as she stays who she is.  
  
Then she goes to Hogwarts. And that's when they tell her that nothing matters. 


End file.
